


Derek Hale and the Cone of Shame

by SLCKat



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Goddammit, I can't even, M/M, Not My Fault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLCKat/pseuds/SLCKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the box.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Derek Hale and the Cone of Shame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gyzym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyzym/gifts).



> This is a tiny snippet of something I may work with later (whilst drunk for maximum effectiveness) and is entirely the fault of gyzym because of a particularly cracky tumblr post. I don't even know. Sorry not sorry.

Waking up was like trying to get to the surface from the bottom of a very deep, very dark, and uncomfortably warm lake. Derek's eyes opened and quickly shut to avoid the blinding glare of fluorescent lights, the hum of which resonated in his preternaturally keen ears so deeply that it felt like ants were crawling underneath his skin.

The second sound to register was barely-controlled laughter. Eyes still closed against the light, his brow furrowed into its normal "fuck you" position, causing the quiet giggler to let out a loud snort.

Fucking Stiles.

"Shut up, Stiles!" he snapped, eyes popping open despite all warnings against doing so. "GAH."

The light was really fucking bright and, as he lifted a hand to shield his eyes, he noticed two things for the first time. Primarily, there was a good stretch of his torso that hurt like all flaming hell. And then there was the plastic thing he knocked his hand against as he tried to block out some of the light.

"The fuck?" he bit out, his eyes finally adjusting to the bright light. Why was everything blurry? What the…

"What. The. Fuck. Is. This." Every word was punctuated with a low, resonant growl. There was a plastic cone around his head. Like he was a fucking dog.

There was a loud crash as Stiles fell over, finally giving in to the giggles he had been stifling for God knows how long. A tray of surgical implements joined him on the floor, and the teenager curled up amongst stainless steel tweezers and a rather impressive selection of scalpels, giggling helplessly.

"Try not to move too much, Derek. You'll tear out a whole lot of stitches," came a cool voice from somewhere over his left shoulder.

Since he couldn't move his head around to glare at the speaker, Derek leveled his best I-will-tear-your-throat-out-with-my-teeth look at Stiles, who had somehow managed to get off the floor without loosing a finger to all the fallen scalpels. Resourceful, that one.

"Why are you glaring at me?" Stiles asked, feigning innocence between breaths. "I wasn't the one who got all hurt and gross having manpain induced violence with Scott's future in-laws. That was all you, dude."

Derek huffed, his breath fogging up the plastic in front of his face. "Why. Am I wearing. A cone?"

"Your body isn't healing like it should, Derek, so I had to do some pretty extensive patching," explained Dr. Deaton, moving into Derek's line of sight. "The cone… well, you can blame--"

"Hey, hey, don't blame me for the cone of shame. That was NOT my--well okay it was kind of my idea but mostly it was so I could send a picture to Scott and I mean, you are being seen by a vet and dog whistles annoy you and you're practically a dog anyway, right, so I figured why--ohfuck!"

Stiles's monologue was cut short as Derek ripped the cone off of his neck and flung it at the babbling teenager. Despite not having full range of movement in his arms, he managed to catch Stiles in the throat, effectively shutting him up. For at least five minutes.

"Phone," he said, holding out a hand covered in dirt and crusted blood. He wiggled his fingers at Stiles. "Now."

"Um…"

Dr. Deaton sighed loudly, rolling his eyes. "Well, you're not going to die, but these injuries will take a few days to heal. Try not to strain them and dump your intestines all over the floor. I won't clean more of your messes," he said, deadpan. "And now I'm going to leave you two to it."

With that, he turned on his heel and retreated back to the kennels to do some kind of veterinarian stuff with real dogs.

Derek's eyes never left Stiles, and his eyebrows never relaxed from Glare-Of-Ultimate-Doom. "Stiiiiles…"

"Oh, um, well, you see, um, I kind of, well…" Stiles fumbled backwards, as far away from Derek as he could get without leaving the room. Which was about a foot and a half. Go Stiles.

"You already sent a text, didn't you." It wasn't a question.

Stiles nodded, wide-eyed.

"With a photo."

Another nod.

"What else?" A photo was too easy. There was probably something worse. Because Stiles was insane. Creative, but insane.

"I may have included care and feeding instructions."

This time, it wasn't just a cone that went flying at Stiles's throat.


End file.
